


Dreamers

by Potoo



Series: burn the world [3]
Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blow Jobs, Choking, Cousin Incest, Desperation, Dreams vs. Reality, Emotions, Episode Related, Extended Metaphors, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Loyalty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 11:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17866301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potoo/pseuds/Potoo
Summary: When you're in the narcotics trade, you learn very quickly to never get addicted to what you sell. But what if you sell dreams - should you just stop dreaming? Gustavo tries to bring Pablo back down to earth after his failed attempt to become a congressman.





	Dreamers

**Author's Note:**

> CW for some canon-typical homophobic language. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Set during s1e03.

The crowd cheered for Pablo. Of course it did, Gustavo thought. His cousin paid them well for it. In money. And in something even more valuable – hope. He drowned Medellín’s poor in hope until they choked on it. Like a famished man that suddenly received a meal fit for a king – he overate, vomited it all back up again, and in the end was hungrier than before. These people were famished for hope, and Pablo smothered them in it. The day they threw it all back up on Pablo would come, and it would not be pretty.

Gustavo took a drag of his cigarette while two hundred people around him chanted _Pablo! Pablo! Pablo!_. Not that he denied them this. If anyone deserved to stand in front of a crowd which worshipped him, it was Pablo. How could Gustavo deny the masses something he felt like doing every day? He exhaled some cigarette smoke. It curled into the air around him and creeped upwards for a bit, until it fizzled out.

That was what Pablo mainly dealt in these days, was it? Not stolen cars, nor marijuana, not even cocaine anymore. He dealt in hopes, in longing, and in his most valuable currency – in dreams. That was what drew people to him: all of his promises. Tata looked at him with a fond smile, rosy cheeks, and the beauty of a woman who had just become a mother twice over. She hoped for his love, and to become Colombia’s First Lady, and all the fame that came with it, Gustavo knew – she ate Pablo’s promises right up, unknowing that he lied to her as much as he lied to himself. The hitmen prowled around the campaign site, each of them with one eye on the crowd and one eye on their boss, listening to him even more ardently than the commoners. They longed for the dollars he gave them, they longed to spill blood without repercussions, they longed for just a glance and a friendly nod from the boss they would never truly get close to. And, oh, how the _people_ listened to him, all of them, men and women, young and old, ugly and pretty, ... Christ. As if Pablo was their personal messiah. He sold them all the dreams they could ever think of, and some they hadn’t even thought of yet. Dinner, every day, and a roof over their heads, safety for their families, a school for the kids and a hospital for the elderly; mundane dreams like that. But these paled compared to what the poor truly dreamed of. Gustavo knew, even though he had never shared that dream; but he had seen it in their eyes a thousand times.

They dreamed of justice. Pablo promised them justice, and Pablo _was_ justice. A boy from the gutter, one of them, risen above to come head–to–head with all the oligarchs ruining their country and their lives. Pablo was the dream they all dreamed.

The tree above Gustavo provided a wide shade, half–hiding him from the crowd. Pablo was talking again, on a small stage, microphone held tightly in his hands. Gustavo flicked open his cigarette pack and took out a second cigarette. Dealing in dreams... that was nothing tangible. Cocaine was tangible. You always knew what you had when you had a kilo of the white gold in your hands. Namely, that: a kilo of cocaine. But dreams – they tended to float away as soon as one blew at them, like cigarette smoke. Gustavo had learned that the hard way, a long time ago, in his childhood. He had had grand dreams too. Maybe not as grand as Pablo’s – he had never wanted to be president of Colombia. But he had wanted to be an astronaut, a lawyer, a doctor, a lion's tamer, a general in the army, and much more. He had spent so many hours imagining himself in one of these roles... And then, suddenly, one day he’d woken up with a few bruised ribs from an altercation in the streets, and a headache from all the wine he’d drank, and all of his dreams had left him, wafting away from him, and ever since then, he had kept reality firmly in his hands. He’d thought – he’d really thought that Pablo had learned that too. But it seemed not. It was like chickenpox, he mused. Catching them as a kid was painful, but not deadly; if you got them as an adult, though, you were doomed. Learning to separate dreams from reality as a child was painful, yet ultimately, you came out of it stronger. But if you had to learn it as an adult, it was not only far more painful – it also tended to be lethal. Too many people had choked on their dreams. Gustavo didn’t want his cousin to be one of them. If he had to, he would reach down into Pablo’s throat and yank all these dreams out of him himself. Nobody else would do it, would they? They were all high on what Pablo sold them so well.

“I will bring down the men of always!” Pablo chanted. His voice was deep, but flitting underneath were excitement and steely conviction. And – Gustavo understood why the crowd went wild, even though dreams could not move him the way they moved the people around him. But even _he_ felt his heart jump a beat at Pablo’s speech. A woman in front of Gustavo was beginning to cry while she chanted about the men of always, and the man next to her was yelling so much that his face had turned red.

Pablo’s gaze roamed over the people after he had finished his speech. Their eyes met for only a second before Gustavo drew his hat down over his eyes. The left side of Pablo’s mouth quirked upwards.

# # #

It was the first time Gustavo found himself questioning Pablo in all of his life. Pablo had always had ideas too grand not to carry out. He had always known the best places to be at the best times. Intuition, a sense for danger as well as for opportunity, charisma in spades, a sharp intelligence and ice-cold ruthlessness had made sure that Pablo had always been a leader, and Gustavo had always been a happy follower. But even when they’d both been much younger than now, they had always made sure to adhere to the first rule of the narcotics trade: never do your own product. That was true for some lowlife dealer in Miami’s streets as much as it was true for the kingpins at the head of the greatest cartel of all time. Such a simple, simple rule. And yes, Pablo didn’t do cocaine – but that wasn’t what he traded in anymore, was it?

He dealt in dreams, and he had gotten addicted to his own dreams, and now he was going through a vicious case of cold turkey.

The minister of justice Lara had humiliated Pablo in front of the entire parliament. He had sent Pablo home, and he had made sure he was not welcome to return. All of Pablo’s dreams, burst into nothingness, just like that. President Pablo Escobar would never come to be. Gustavo had known it would end like this, but had anyone listened? Pablo had stuffed himself with his dreams, and now it was the morning after, so to speak, and his withdrawal was pitiful to look at. Gustavo didn’t know whether he could continue following a drug dealer who couldn’t remember the very first rule of their business.

It was around three in the morning, and the villa was quiet. Tata and the children were in bed. One of their hitmen was still patrolling, the single light of his torch flashing in the distance periodically. The stars were reflected on the surface of the hacienda’s pool, its clear water, with a crescent moon wavering in the middle. Pablo was sitting at the edge of the pool, his back to Gustavo and his head hanging low. Gustavo regarded him for a while from where he stood between two columns. Pablo’s back was curled inwards, towards the pool, as if one false movement would make him topple over into the water. Gustavo lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and then stepped forwards until he stood next to Pablo. His cousin continued staring at the water as if he hadn’t noticed him. So Gustavo sat down and placed the cigarette into Pablo’s hand.

Pablo mechanically guided the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled. His gaze remained fixed on the water. He passed the cigarette back to Gustavo, his motions still mechanical. This continued, passing the cigarette between them in silence, until they had finished it. Their talk from earlier that evening still echoed in Gustavo’s ears. _I’ll fix it_ , Pablo had said when Gustavo had told him to abandon his dreams. Those were not the words of one determined to give up his dreams; only of a desperate man who did not want to let them go even though he knew, exactly, that they were dead already.

Gustavo was – Gustavo was worried, he admitted to himself. Worried, anxious, afraid for Pablo, a bit afraid for himself, and unsure about the future in a way he hadn’t been in years. He shifted in place and followed Pablo’s gaze towards the surface of the pool. There was nothing there but undisturbed, black water, with a thousand white dots sprinkling its surface. There was nothing out there. Nothing but what Pablo wanted to see.

Gustavo flicked the cigarette stub into the water. Ripples grew for a few moments, spread out, disturbed the peaceful reflection of the moon, and then died as the stub slowly floated to the ground. “What are you going to do now, cousin,” he asked calmly, while both their gazes remained fixed on the water. “You know this is a battle you can’t win.”

Pablo stayed quiet for a while. Gustavo gave him the time he needed. Usually, that was all Pablo needed: some time, some quiet, and he always came up with the most visionary plans Gustavo had ever heard. “I’ll kill him. Lara. And everyone else who thinks they can stop me. Minister of _Justice_.” Pablo scoffed. “Tell me, Gustavo, where’s the justice in that son of a bitch’s actions? He fucked me. I’ll fuck him back. End of story.” Pablo’s tone was quiet, but it was like the quiet before a storm. You felt the oncoming lightning prickle in the air, even though not a single wisp of wind was around. Gustavo shivered.

“You think it was unjust, what he did?” Gustavo asked, rather incredulous. “Lara is an ass. But – he did his job. He kept a known criminal out of parliament. You’re not allowed to serve the state if you’ve broken the state’s rules. It’s admirable, in a way. The cocksucker sticks to his principles.”

Pablo scoffed again, louder this time. His gaze remained on the water, and suddenly, Gustavo desperately wished that his cousin would look at him instead of the fucking water. “Yes, _brother_. He followed a set of rules made to keep people like you and me from ever changing anything for good in this country. It’s not _justice_ to follow unjust rules. It’s the opposite. That man, he’s the real criminal. He’s a tyrant.”

Gustavo’s incredulity only grew as he listened to Pablo. Justice? Changing anything for good? People like you and me? Tyrant? Did Pablo – did he take all of that seriously? Did he seriously believe he was some kind of Colombian Robin Hood, and Lara was an evil Prince John?

“Pablo, you gotta wake up,” Gustavo pleaded, “you can’t continue like that.”

And Pablo, fucking Pablo, kept looking out at the water. It lay as quiet as Pablo grew now. Gustavo watched him, intently, but Pablo did not even blink. He placed a careful hand on Pablo’s shoulder, his thumb extended until he could feel Pablo’s pulse beneath his skin, just to make sure he was still alive and hadn’t turned to stone yet, but even now Pablo did not move, did not even flinch, and – – did not fucking look at Gustavo.

“You broke the first fucking rule,” Gustavo accused him. The anger and fear that had been building slowly now bled into his voice, turning it heated and louder than he wanted. “Never, _never_ become a user of your own product, Pablo! Sell the crowd your lies about justice and hope and dreams, but don’t – you really believe in this shit, don’t you? That you’re their savior? The voice of the people? You’re a drug dealer, Pablo. A common criminal. Nothing more. You broke it. The first rule. Come on. Stop believing in these people’s dream. You’re far too clever for that. It’s a shit dream either way.”

Pablo was still staring at the water, but his jaw tensed, and his nostrils flared the way they always did when he gave his best to suppress his anger. Gustavo attempted to take his hand off Pablo’s shoulder, lifting it a little, but Pablo’s hand shot up to cover his, and pressed it back down onto Pablo’s shoulder without mercy. Shit. He’d gone too far. You didn’t anger Pablo like that. It always ended badly. Gustavo was not afraid of Pablo – he never would be, ever, in his entire life, he knew – but his body didn’t know that; the hair on the back of his neck rose, and a violent shiver ran down his back. Pablo ground his teeth.

“If you were _anyone_ else,” Pablo breathed, his voice almost too quiet to be heard, “I would kill you for that." And then, Pablo finally, _finally_ turned to look at him, a predatory gaze out of hooded dark eyes. This was a gaze Gustavo had seen many times, but always directed at other people – people who were about to die.

Gustavo swallowed slightly. He felt a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. Pablo’s hand was pressing down painfully on his. But he had a duty to his cousin. He had to get through this. “That’s why I’m saying it,” Gustavo replied, his voice carefully neutral, all his prior anger forgotten. “Because I’m the only one who can. And because you need to hear it. Pablo.”

Pablo kept staring at him like a wild tiger. He would pounce the moment Gustavo showed weakness, he knew. They held each other’s gaze. Then, suddenly, Pablo released his hand, and wrapped his fingers around Gustavo’s throat. He squeezed slightly. Not nearly hard enough to be dangerous, but the pressure was there, and it stole Gustavo’s breath within seconds. His mouth opened slightly, trying to suck in more air. “I didn’t break the first rule,” Pablo snarled, his voice barely more than a hiss. His fingers applied more pressure. Gustavo kept looking at him, waiting patiently for what he would say next. An explanation, maybe, _why_ he hadn’t broken the first rule. An excuse, perhaps. Anything. Pablo’s gaze searched Gustavo’s face, restless. “I didn’t _fucking_ break the first rule.” he finally said, claimed, and that was when they both knew Pablo was lying, not only to Gustavo but also to himself. Pablo had no excuse. He had no explanation. Nothing, nothing, nothing; nothing but blind denial.

And Gustavo didn’t like being lied to. Not by Pablo. He began to grin right into his cousin’s face, a grin without joy, without amusement, barely more than a show of teeth. Gustavo spoke, but his voice came out strained and raw, as Pablo was still applying pressure to his throat. “Stop lying to me, huh, brother? And stop lying to yourself.” Gustavo blinked once after he said that, and then his back abruptly hit the cold stone behind him. Pablo had pushed him over, one hand still on his throat, the other splayed on Gustavo’s chest. Gustavo scrambled for purchase on the slippery surface, but found none, so his hands shot up and grabbed for Pablo’s shoulders. He took hold of both of Pablo’s shirt lapels, crumpling them between his fingers. Pablo was towering over him, and his gaze was still wild, shimmering with barely suppressed rage, his hair framing his face like a dark halo. He pressed down on Gustavo’s throat and Gustavo sucked in a breath harshly through his nose, his body starting to get desperate while his mind was clearer than it had been in a long while. “You’re so high on your – your fucking dreams––!” Pablo was leaning forwards while Gustavo spoke, and was breathing heavily into Gustavo’s face, inches away from him. “You can’t even see the truth anymore!” Gustavo’s voice turned into nothing but a strangled cough. Darkness was starting to creep into his vision, but he was still focused on Pablo, and even though he was currently passing out from lack of oxygen, he had to admit that, well, fuck, Pablo had rarely looked this glorious before, righteous fury burning hotly in his dark eyes, framed by a halo like the messiah he believed himself to be.

Gustavo’s eyes fluttered shut, and then the pressure vanished abruptly. He opened his eyes. Pablo’s hand crawled from his throat up to his cheek, cradling his face, but without any gentleness. Gustavo could only look at him, transfixed, forcing deep breaths down his maltreated throat. His chest, he noticed, was lifting and falling heavily. Pablo’s was, too. They were both out of breath. “What’s the truth, then?” Pablo asked, his tone monotonous. Gustavo took a few more breaths before he answered. If his answer enraged Pablo further, which it probably would, then he wanted to be prepared.

“They don’t want you, brother,” he finally replied, and Gustavo noticed with surprise that there was sorrow in his voice, as if he was _sad_ about this. “None of them do. The ministers.  The congressmen. The politicians. The oligarchs. The elite. Shit. They never wanted you, and they’ll fight you every step, and you’ll never, never get through to them ’cause – ’cause they just don’t want you. They look at you and they see nothing but – but filth. You’re _filth_ to them.” Pablo flinched at that, almost imperceptibly. “You never had a chance with them.” Gustavo felt sadder now, and the bizarre urge to be kind. Fondness for his cousin flooded his mind, and his heart beat warmly in his chest. “They don’t even deserve you. You’re too good for them. Don’t lose yourself in dreams that one day, they’ll want you. They won’t. Please.” His fingers, still holding on to Pablo’s lapels, tugged at them slightly, in a silent plea.

Pablo’s eyes were wide. And red, at the rims, as if he was holding back tears. But that was nonsense. The last time Gustavo had seen Pablo cry had been when his cousin had been a teenager. Pablo closed his eyes and leaned forward, until his forehead rested on Gustavo’s. He breathed in, and out, and Gustavo could feel his breath tingling on his lips. He took one of his hands off Pablo’s lapels and placed it on the small of Pablo’s back. “They want me,” Pablo whispered against Gustavo’s lips, “they _have_ to want me.” Gustavo made a sad sound and pressed Pablo’s back closer to him. Pablo was sitting on him, both of his legs on each side of Gustavo’s own legs, and now their bodies were touching from lips to hips. “Everyone wants me. I’m Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria.” He sounded almost petulant like this. More like the three-year-old child Gustavo had taken by the hand a lifetime ago than one of the richest and most powerful men in the world.

“I know,” Gustavo replied, quietly. Pablo’s eyes opened, but he was too close, and Gustavo couldn’t focus on them. “I _know_ , Pablo. They’re – they’re fools. Everyone _should_ want you. But that’s just not how it is. You’ve been dreaming for too long, brother.”

Pablo was hot on top of him, a heavy weight that trapped Gustavo, unliftable even if he decided to fight, which he would not. If Pablo were to grow angry again, it would be easy for him to kill Gustavo right where they were lying. But he sensed that the anger had left Pablo, at least for now. Gustavo wasn’t sure that he preferred the sadness that followed it. He lifted his head, slightly, to kiss Pablo. Usually when they did things like this, everything was rough and quick, with no space for kindness – Gustavo wasn’t some pussy that needed to be caressed, and Pablo wasn’t either. But this time, he sensed that a more gentle approach was appropriate. Pablo kept his eyes open, as he usually did when they kissed, and Gustavo closed them, to concentrate on the taste of his cousin. There was the cigarette from before, cheap wine, Pablo’s own taste, and something that seemed like how wrath would taste, if it had a taste. Pablo sighed into the kiss. His legs moved slightly, skin through his jeans pressing against Gustavo’s, and that made Gustavo sigh as well. Pablo’s tongue was so warm and so heady that he felt like his breath was being choked out of him once again, although in a far more pleasant way than before.

“If that’s the truth, I don’t think I want it.” Pablo told him after they had tasted each other for so long that Gustavo was beginning to grow hard inside his pants. Gustavo’s hand was wandering to Pablo’s thigh, and he squeezed it firmly, surprisingly soft flesh molding to his grip. Pablo didn’t even flinch, but his forehead was still resting on Gustavo’s, and his breath was coming a bit heavier than before. “But I guess I’ll have to take it. No other choice, huh?”

“Mhm,” Gustavo hummed. “But there’s another truth, you know. They may not want you. But I do.”

Pablo was silent for a while. Then – “Gustavo, you faggot,” he scoffed, almost annoyed, a bit aggressive, and certainly affectionate. Gustavo took that as a cue for his hand to creep from Pablo’s thigh to his crotch, where he could feel his cousin’s cock hardening beneath his fingers. He pressed down on the bulge, and Pablo breathed in sharply. “Hmm,” Pablo hummed, which was, undoubtedly, a sound of appreciation. Gustavo let his hand open the buttons of Pablo’s jeans, and then it slipped inside, where skin as hot as hellfire welcomed him. “Maybe I broke the first rule,” Pablo mused while Gustavo began to stroke him to full hardness. “Yes, maybe I did. Got lost in my dreams. But you can’t say _shit_ about that. Not _you_ , out of all people. Hypocrite.”

“No?” Gustavo prompted, because as far as he knew, he had never broken the first rule, hadn’t even gotten close to it. Pablo shook his head. Then, Pablo leaned back, grabbed Gustavo’s shirt, and hauled him up, until they were both sitting again, still close, still facing each other, and Gustavo’s hand still down Pablo’s pants. “Well. Tell me. When did I _ever_ get addicted to _anything_ we sold? I’m not stupid, brother.” With these words, he twisted his hand in the particular way he knew made Pablo moan every time; and it didn’t disappoint.

“ _Don’t get addicted to what you sell._ That’s the – the first rule, huh.” Pablo told him after he’d recovered. His hand grabbed Gustavo’s hand and tugged it out of his jeans, along with his dick, before he took Gustavo’s neck and dragged Gustavo’s face down to his crotch roughly. “Suck my cock,” he ordered, and Gustavo looked at him for a split second before he did as Pablo told him. It usually paid to do what Pablo Escobar told you to do, even when you were his cousin. Maybe especially when you were his cousin. He looked up at Pablo after he had swallowed his dick as far as he could, because Pablo always made for a damn good sight like this, lips pressed together tightly and black curls plastered to his sides from sweat. By God, Gustavo thought, he was _sublime_. “You know, Gustavo. It’s no wonder that you’re immune. To my promises. To my dreams. Stuff that – not even _I_ am – – immune to.” His words were still as elegant and convincing as ever, but the pleasure Gustavo was coaxing out of Pablo made itself known in his voice, in the way his words came short and fast, almost breathless. Gustavo hummed. Pablo grabbed a hold of Gustavo’s hair, pulling at it harshly. “Yes. ’Cause you. You already have everything you want, huh? You’re not dreaming of anything else. Nothing more than this.”

 _Nothing more_ – well, what more could there be? He was a billionaire, he was living the most extravagant life, he could have anything he wanted at the snap of his fingers, he was on top of the world. And he was there with Pablo, he was Pablo Escobar’s right hand, his most important man. The top of the world could be lonely, Gustavo imagined, but not when he was here with Pablo. He still looked up, because seeing – and hearing – Pablo like this was incredible, and he took him down deeper, and Pablo groaned deeply until Gustavo tasted sticky pre-cum. “All your dreams have come true already. No use – – chasing them anymore. Not for you. But you’re still – you’re still not – you’re still breaking the first rule. Every. Day. Don’t get addicted to your livelihood.”

Gustavo still didn’t get it, but then, for a moment, he didn’t have time to think about it, because Pablo was coming, and he held him in place, so that Gustavo had to swallow everything. As much as Gustavo loved Pablo, he still hated this taste. Pablo loved this, though, and so he did it, like so many other things in his life he didn’t actually like. But he did them. For Pablo.

They breathed, both of them, in silence. The villa was still quiet around them. The water was still clear, the stars were still reflected on the pool, but Gustavo was not worried anymore. He felt relieved and pleased, yet with an itching in the back of his mind, and an insistent throbbing between his legs. Both grew stronger when he caught and held Pablo’s gaze again, one corner of his cousin’s mouth quirking upwards. Pablo placed one hand on Gustavo’s hips, and Gustavo felt both his heart and his dick jump in painful anticipation. He wetted his lips. When Gustavo decided to break the silence around them, his voice was even more strained than before. “I never broke the first rule. What do you mean by that?” he asked, and Pablo – Pablo smirked, that son of a bitch.

“You’ll figure it out, brother.” he replied, almost in a good mood, and Pablo’s hand slid into Gustavo’s jeans, and then he found that his curiosity was not strong enough to keep this conversation going, not when all his mind wanted to do was to lose itself in Pablo’s touch, his heat, and the whispered words of encouragement falling from his lips.

# # #

The crowd cheered for Pablo. He announced that he would resign from congress, but they still cheered for him. Because he was still selling them dreams; still selling them the dream of justice, only this time, it was repackaged as vengeance. Gustavo stood next to a tree again, watching everything eagle-eyed. The order for Lara’s murder had already been set in motion; the man was living on borrowed time. Pablo would not go down quietly. Gustavo took a drag of his cigarette while his cousin spoke on stage.

Pablo was right, after all. He usually was. Maybe Pablo had started to believe in his own dreams too much, gotten addicted to what he sold. But Gustavo – he had made that mistake long before Pablo had ever stuffed himself with his dreams. It all depended on the perspective, didn’t it? They didn’t deal in cars, or marijuana, or cocaine, not really. Pablo dealt in dreams these days. And Gustavo – ever since he had started out on this path, Gustavo had been dealing in Pablo. Pablo was his livelihood, in truth, and had been for a long time. Without Pablo, he was nothing, and with Pablo, he was everything.

And he was so addicted to Pablo that he could never get out as long as he lived. Never wanted to get out, either.

The smoke from his cigarette curled around him, floated into the air, and disappeared. The crowd chanted Pablo’s name. Gustavo joined in.

Pablo was the dream they all dreamed.

**Author's Note:**

> As in my other work: hitmen are sicarios, son of a bitch is hijo de puta, faggot/pussy is maricón/maríca. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. I welcome concrit, especially regarding characterization. Writing Gustavo is very different than writing Pablo but no less fun!


End file.
